


Communication

by Dolimir



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:56:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolimir/pseuds/Dolimir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim speculates about his relationship with Blair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Communication

_What we have here is a failure to communicate._

Sandburg is a man of words. Oh, don't get me wrong. He's also a man of action; but when it comes to relationships, he needs the words to make it real to him.

I, on the other hand, am a man of action. I was brought up to believe that it was unmanly to discuss one's feelings, that it somehow made you weaker. Although I've broken away from a lot of my father's early training; this is one lesson with which I'm still struggling.

I love Blair Sandburg. And truth be told, he loves me. Not that we ever say the words or even do anything about it; but the fact remains, we love each other.

Blair shows his love in a million tiny ways: from using unscented deodorant, to watching what I eat, to tolerating my occasional bursts of irrationality.

You know what finally brought it home? The movie _The Princess Bride_. No, I'm not kidding. The beginning of the movie starts with Buttercup basically haranguing her poor farmhand. "Farm Boy, fetch me some water." "Farm Boy, fetch me that pitcher." And for every one of her bizarre demands, he simply replied, "As you wish." After some time, she realized what he was actually saying was, "I love you."

With Sandburg it was "Sure. No problem, man."

"Sandburg, get in here and pick these towels off the floor."

"Sure. No problem, man."

"Sandburg, will you stop with all the damn tests?"

"Sure. No problem, man."

"Sandburg, will you please toss whatever is in the blue Tupperware? It's humming in the background and I think we should kill it before it achieves sentience."

"Sure. No problem, man."

And one day, it just hit me. Blair Sandburg loves me. Now you would think that would have sent an ex-Ranger, ex-Black Op, straight, Major Crimes police detective into some sort of homophobic rage, but it didn't. Because like Buttercup, I realized that I, too, loved my Guide.

But no matter how many openings and opportunities I gave him, he simply would not say the words. This bothered me for a long time. Actually, it bothered me a lot, but then I took the time to seriously look at his childhood. Blair grew up with people not being in his life for very long. Naomi, God love her, being the free spirit she was and is, simply could not put down roots; and in the process swept her son along with her as the winds blew her around the world. Listening to Blair talk, you'd think it was a great way to grow up. He traveled the world and met some very interesting and important people, but it also taught him to be all surface.

That's not to say he's shallow, because Sandburg may be the deepest human being I've ever run across. No, what I've observed is that while he's friendly and people are drawn to him, he rarely gives anything of himself.

Sandburg has a kind heart; not only would he give you the coat off his back, but at least two or three of his shirts as well. It's just the generous soul he is. But for some deep dark reason, he has decided that he's not worthy of anyone's true affection. It probably had to do with people flitting in and out of his life. I'm not slamming Naomi. Okay, maybe I am, just a little. But how many men, how many father figures did she bring into Blair's life, only to have them leave with little or no explanation? You can't explain to a child that adults sometimes part ways because deep down inside the child is already blaming himself. If only he had been better. If only he had done something different. It's heartbreaking really.

Especially, because he doesn't think he has a right to be in my life. He still thinks I'm just looking for a reason to kick him out--again. And who can blame the kid. After all, I threw him out of the loft, leaving him vulnerable, unprotected.

He sees my bringing him back as something I did out of guilt. He opened himself to me afterward and asked me to join him in the water, but I froze. I couldn't say the words. Instead, I told him I couldn't take that trip with him.

"Sure. No problem, man."

When the dissertation was leaked, again words failed me and my old survival instincts kicked back in.

"I have to have a partner I can trust."

"Sure. No problem, man." He then sacrificed his entire professional life for me.

So now, it's a year later. He's made it through the Academy with flying colors and is now my permanent and official partner. I couldn't be happier. No, that's not true. Actually, I could.

I keep hoping that my actions will finally break through those walls of his.

For instance, observe.

"Sandburg, don't you have to be in court in an hour?"

"Crap," comes a muffled cry from his bedroom.

A furry haze of hair streaks into the bathroom and jumps into the shower. "Damn. Damn. Damn."

As the blur heads back to his bedroom, I go into the kitchen, toast a bagel for him and slather it with blueberry cream cheese. He loves blueberry. Of course, if he watched me put it on, he'd complain about the lack of nutritional value. But if I just do it, he appreciates the gesture. I wrap the bagel in a paper towel and grab a cold bottle of water out of the refrigerator. I pull a ten dollar bill out of my wallet and fold it in half, then stand by the kitchen island. Waiting.

The better groomed blur comes out of the bedroom, backpack slung over his shoulder, racing toward the door. I hand him the bagel and the water.

"Thanks, man. You are a saint."

I hand him the ten.

"What's this for?"

"Lunch. I've got the deposition over at the D.A.'s at eleven. I doubt I'm gonna get back in time for lunch."

He grins at me as he takes the bill. "You're the best, Jim."

I lean forward and kiss him gently on the lips. "Go get 'em, Tiger. Tonight's my night to cook and I'm feeling like stroganoff."

"Do I need to pick anything up from the store on the way home?" he asks, practically through the door.

"Nope. I've got all the ingredients here."

"Cool. See you tonight." And he's gone.

He doesn't even realize we kissed. It's not even the first time I've pulled that little stunt on him. Oh maybe, it'll come to him sometime later today. But probably not. It never has before. But I'm not despairing. Because I have all the time in the world. And Blair Sandburg loves me. And one of these days, I'll find the words or he'll understand my actions and it'll all work out. Until then, I can wait, content to have him in my life.


	2. Sure, No Problem, Man

Jim opened the front door and quietly set his keys in the wicker basket. He let out a tiny sigh of relief when he noted there were no packed bags by the door, although he was immediately ashamed of himself for thinking there might be.

He focused on the heartbeat which he knew was close by, since the Volvo was in working order and parked outside in its assigned spot, and found it not where he expected, but out on the balcony.

He took several steps toward the closed window and noted the dejected figure sitting and staring over the cityscape. Jim felt his own shoulders slump. After four years of trying, they were still getting it wrong. _He_ was still getting it wrong.

Jim opened the glass door. "It's kind of cold out here."

Blair didn't turn or even jump, as if he expected him. "It's not too bad."

Not knowing what else to say, Jim said quietly, "I was thinking about fixing hash from the left over pot roast."

"Okay."

With nothing more to say, he nodded, unnecessarily. "Okay then."

Jim went back into the loft, moved straight into the kitchen and pulled several potatoes, onions and peppers out of the vegetable bin. He worked steadily on preparing dinner; however, his eyes kept being drawn back to the still figure on the patio. Forty-five minutes later, he moved back toward the balcony.

"Dinner's ready."

Blair nodded, but made no immediate movement. Jim turned and headed back into kitchen, busying himself with putting the pan to the table and pulling the bread from the stove. His partner moved by him and plucked two beers from the refrigerator before sitting at the table himself.

They ate in silence, not an uncomfortable silence, but a far cry for their normal rousing conversations and debates.

Jim tore a piece of bread from the loaf and meticulously buttered it. "I feel like I broke you," he finally conceded in a whisper.

Blair blinked at him, as if pulling his attention outward from his internal thought processes. "You didn't."

"You were supposed to yell back," Jim said conversationally, although it came off as slightly disapproving.

Blair smiled sadly at him, then took another bite of hash. "Why would I yell when I agree with you?"

Jim felt an icy fist close tightly around his heart. "You said you wouldn't leave."

Blair sighed. "And I won't. But I've been a cop for over a year now. With the recent budget cuts, I think it makes sense for me to start working a few cases on my own." He shrugged. "Plus, it'll give you a chance to spread your wings." In a softer voice, he added, "But I'll always be your safety net, man, you know that."

Jim shook his head, then deliberately put his bread on his plate when he realized he had squeezed it into a wafer. "I don't want that."

Blair cleared his throat and looked toward the balcony window. "Maybe I do," he whispered.

Anger broiled up with him, but he savagely tamped down on it. "I don't want that," he repeated.

Blair looked back at him, staring into his face as if trying to read his soul. "I know."

"But..." Jim prompted.

Blair didn't answer him. He simply stood, took his plate to the sink and washed it.

"I'm not very good with words," Jim said, coming up behind his partner, but not touching him.

"I don't know that that's true. I've known you to be fairly elegant in your communication skills sometimes," Blair said, obviously trying to lighten the tone, but not turning to face him.

"Somehow, I keep making the same mistakes with you."

Jim watched his companion's shoulders sag briefly, before they straightened and Blair concentrated on drying his dishes. "Expressing your feelings are never wrong, Jim. You feel what you feel."

"So why don't I ever say what I feel?"

Blair shrugged, and put his plate in the cupboard.

"Fear based reactions," Jim whispered, then frowned when he saw Blair's shoulders sag even further.

Blair folded the dishtowel, leaving the glass and silverware in the drainer. "Night, Jim."

Jim wanted to catch Blair's eye but his partner refused to look at him as he made his way to his room. Jim closed his eyes and banged his head against the cupboards. Why couldn't he tell Blair how he felt?

 _Only pansies talk about their feelings._ He could hear his father's voice sear through his mind.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. And where had this sage advice gotten William Ellison? Living by himself in a mansion that could easily house a half dozen people, estranged from his children and his ex-wife, only now beginning to realize the extent of everything he'd lost.

But the belief had been planted early on, making it a part of Jim's foundation, whether he liked it or not.

He had tried to demonstrate his feelings to Blair, tried to show him how much he cared; but Blair was an academic. He needed the words for the feelings to be true. He needed what Jim Ellison couldn't give him.

He turned as Blair opened his French doors and moved quietly into the bathroom.

Jim felt like they were on separate coasts, and Blair was boarding a boat and drifting even further away.

He had to do something, had to find a way to make Blair understand.

Without thought, he moved to the wall between the bathroom and Blair's room and waited. As soon as the door opened, he moved into Blair's path.

The younger man stopped when he became aware of Jim's presence. He looked up, but said nothing.

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Blair seemed to study his face for a moment. He patted Jim's arm in a reassuring matter, then smiled sadly at him before he moved around him.

Jim turned and gently grabbed Blair's arm, knowing on some deep level that he couldn't let his partner walk away. Blair cocked an eyebrow at him, but remained silent. Jim tried again to speak, and again he couldn't push the words out of his throat.

"It's okay, Jim," Blair breathed, barely louder than a whisper.

Jim shook his head, knowing it wasn't and not wanting to pretend any more that it was. He took a deep breath, released it, and slowly brought Blair's square workmanlike hand up to his lips and gently pressed a kiss to Blair's knuckles.

Blair's mouth opened slowly in shock, but then shook his head.

And Jim knew, knew on an instinctual level, that lovers in the past hadn't given Blair the words he so desperately needed to hear, knew that they had used the lack of those words against him when things went bad, knew that Blair would never believe him until the words were spoken. Yet knowing all this, Jim couldn't force himself to speak the words.

As if understanding, Blair smiled gently at him. "I'm going to bed now."

And finally Jim knew exactly what to say. "Sure, no problem, man," he whispered. He let Blair move away, but didn't release his hand, letting their connection stretch between them.

Blair stopped and turned, his eyes wide.

Jim could feel a smile blossoming over his face. "I do, you know."

Blair swallowed hard. "It's not enough." And Jim knew that his partner wasn't talking about the love they shared, but about the words he had just given.

"I know," he whispered. "But is it enough to start?"

Blair hesitated for a moment, then looked shyly up at him and smiled. "Sure, no problem, man."


	3. Three Simple Words

I'd like to be able to say that as soon as we understood each other, we kissed and made passionate love all night long, but, as is often the case, reality isn't like the movies.

I remember that after we, in a roundabout way, had declared our intentions, we stood, facing each other, connected only by our clasped hands. Blair smiled shyly at me, but made no move to close the distance between us.

"Do you want to talk?" I asked, wondering where my energizer bunny was.

He shook his head, although his smile never wavered.

"Are you feeling all right?"

The question made him laugh, and I felt as if the sun had risen and blessed me with its warmth.

"Maybe in the morning," he finally conceded.

"Okay, then." I squeezed his hand gently and released it. "We'll talk in the morning."

"Sure, no problem, man."

We both grinned at each other, realizing, at long last, we were both on the same page.

As luck would have it, however, we never had the talk. Simon called at the crack of dawn with a double homicide down on the docks, and, with our eyes barely open, we drove to the scene.

The following two weeks were spent working eighteen hours a day, sitting in the truck freezing our asses off during stake outs and following seemingly endless paper trails. But in the end, we got our man, and our closure rate remained intact.

Simon gave us two days off, but Sandburg has to testify in yet another trial. My intention is to sleep in until noon, but my internal clock refuses to let me sleep any longer so I get up and turn on the coffeemaker.

The alarm goes off in Sandburg's room. I have to smile when I hear his hand fumbling to slap the snooze alarm. He'll hit it at least two more times before he even seriously thinks about waking up. Sandburg claims that hitting the snooze allows his body to wake gradually instead of being thrust into the harsh realities of morning consciousness.

I look back on the last two weeks and try to see how our semi-declaration has changed our lives. To my shock, I realize it hadn't changed anything. But, I come to the realization that it really wouldn't have. We both love each other, but then again we have for ages. We still touch each other, still look out for each other, still argue and laugh together. The only thing we haven't done is completely consummate our relationship. We've already done so mentally and spiritually, but we still need to do it verbally and physically.

I wonder briefly if it's even necessary to take the final two steps. Maybe necessary isn't the right word, but I want it, want it more than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life. I want us to belong to each other, to know it on a molecular level.

The alarm sounds again.

"Sandburg! Doesn't Sanchez want you early so she can go over your testimony?"

"Crap," comes the muffled reply. I'm suddenly filled with a sense of deja vu as a furry haze of hair streaks into the bathroom.

Chuckling to myself, I decide to repeat history and toast a bagel for him, although this time I slather on strawberry cream cheese, as we seem to be out of blueberry. Again, I wrap the bagel in a paper towel and grab a cold bottle of water out of the refrigerator, then stand by the kitchen island to wait.

Just like last time the better-groomed blur comes out, jacket buttoned up, backpack slung firmly in place, racing for the door. I hand him the bagel and the water.

"Aw, man, you're a saint."

"And don't you forget it either."

His hand is already on the door.

"Do you think you'll be home by lunch?"

He nods. "I think so, I'm supposed to be first up."

"Well, if you get home at a decent hour, I'll take you to that new seafood place over on Wilston."

His smile is brilliant. "Now that's what I call incentive."

I lean forward and kiss him gently on the lips. "Go get 'em, Tiger."

"Thanks, Jim." He opens the door but instead of flinging himself down the stairwell, he stops, turns back toward me and blinks. I can see him putting everything together; can see him remembering all the other times I'd pulled this stunt on him. He takes a deep breath and laughs softly to himself. When he looks toward me again, his face is shy. Then as if afraid to break the spell, he moves very slowly, bringing his hand up behind my neck and pulling my head downward. The kiss is so incredibly gentle, so sweet, that I feel that I might shatter into a million pieces. When he releases me, he looks so bashful that I am overwhelmed with the urge to hug him. But before I can move, he smiles at me and races down the stairs.

Damn, he's brave.

I close the door, walk to the balcony and watch as he climbs into his car. I follow him until he's out of my line of sight, then listen to his car until he's completely out of my hearing range. Even though the air is incredibly chilly, I feel warmer than I have in a long time.

I move back into the loft and shake my head as I realize that he's still waiting for the words and I'm still waiting for him to understand my actions.

But wasn't the kiss an acknowledgment of my actions?

And I know, know on the deepest level of my being, that it is. Blair Sandburg has basically told me that he is willing to take a chance on me even though I haven't given him the words.

I am humbled by that faith.

I roll my head back on my shoulders and whimper in exasperation. He deserves the same consideration.

"What are you waiting for, Ellison?" I ask the empty loft.

Am I waiting for the right moment? For some huge event to happen so I can say those three words without the fear of how others might perceive them? Am I waiting to blurt them out in the heat of passion like Carolyn used to do? Carolyn could never say the words unless our bodies were intertwined and sweating with exhaustion.

But that's not us, not Blair and I.

Our love is the foundation of our relationship. It's simple and yet all-encompassing. It's everything. It's so basic to who we are, we almost don't have to acknowledge it because there's no way we could ever deny it.

So what am I waiting for?

*-*-*-*-*-*

I look up from my book when I hear Blair jogging up the stairs; but before I can stand, he's already unlocking the door.

He drops his keys into the basket. "Hey."

"How'd it go?"

"Pretty good, I think."

"You ready for lunch?"

"The seafood place?"

"Yep."

"Cool. Just let me put my pack away."

I set my book down and follow him to his room, stopping in the doorway. He slides the pack along the floor to his desk, then turns around. I notice how the winter air has reddened his cheeks and I can practically smell the morning's briskness on skin. His whole body radiates with life--mine. For that's what he is--my life.

"I love you."

He blinks at me. "Excuse me?"

"I love you."

He looks confused and I almost laugh.

"Just like that?"

I smile at him. I'm seriously messing with his world views. "Just like that."

"But...but..."

"But what?" I taunt as I close the distance between us.

"You...you...can't..."

"No?" I ask, using his down jacket to pull him closer.

"I...I..."

I cut off his protests with a kiss. His mouth is sweet and I realize that I want to spend a lifetime exploring it.

He moans softly, then tries to pull away as if his reaction startles him. But I know that allowing distance between us will only make the wait that much longer and, quite frankly, I'm tired of waiting. My fingers make short work of his snaps and I push the jacket off his shoulders. As soon as it hits the floor, his hands clench in my flannel shirt and draw me closer. His kisses become more wild as if I have somehow found the key to the lock that has kept us as polite friends.

His moan awakens something feral in me. All I can think about is being next to him, skin to skin, in him, his being in me. I run my hands up his broad back and into his hair, clutching him tight as I ravage his mouth.

His hands scrabble over my buttons and once he reaches skin his hands seek my nipples. I gasp for breath as fire races down my spine to my groin.

In one fell swoop I divest him of his sweater and throw it on the floor even as I push him back onto his futon and straddle his lap. He has my belt off before I am even cognizant of the fact that he's moved. My pants are halfway down my thighs before I manage to get his flannel shirt off.

"Jesus, Sandburg," I whisper in exasperation when I spot the Henley.

"I was cold," he murmurs, just before his lips latch onto my right nipple.

I cry out at the sensation, barely aware of the fact that my boxers are joining my pants. In frustration, I pull his Henley off--only to find a white sweat-soaked t-shirt.

I laugh, forcing him onto his back after I take off the final layer which separates me from my reward. "This is better than searching for the prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box."

He shivers, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt it's not from the cold. His fingernails run down my chest, leaving tracks on my skin that mark me, that burn me. He runs his right index finger over my tip, then very slowly looks up at me and deliberately licks his finger.

I clench my hands and my stomach, trying to hold back the explosion seeking release from my body. My hands move without conscious thought. His shoes are taken from his feet, his pants and boxers taken from him in one swift movement. I have him pinned beneath me before rational thought reasserts itself.

We both cry out as our bodies align.

"Jim," he asks, almost frightened.

"It's okay," I reassure him in a murmur, even as I thrust gently against him. "Everything will be okay."

His hand clutches at my upper arm, but his eyes are full of love and trust as he raises his hips to meet my downward glide. Our mouths seek each other's out, exploring, plundering new worlds. Our bodies learn each other's rhythms and our dance becomes less frantic as we become one in our movements. We both want this to last. There is no race to completion, just giving and taking, just sentinel and guide, just Blair and Jim.

His head rolls back on the pillow as the sensations in his body expand. He's desperately trying to keep his control, and I am just as deliberately trying to make him lose it. His head begins to thrash back and forth, his breaths become shorter like pants, his whimpering moans are making me wild and my thrusts become harder.

His eyes seek mine. "Why?" he asks, his eyes heavy with passion.

"Because I do," I answer, knowing what he's asking. "Because to deny the obvious seems rather stupid." I grind against him. His body collapses against the bed, but quickly arches, seeking mine. "And while I may be a lot of things, I'm not stupid."

His hands scratch down my back and he actually growls at me. "Come on, Jim." His voice is deep, pleading, and desperate. "Come on."

I cannot deny his request. I thrust one more time, releasing everything I am, giving him everything.

"Jim!" he whispers as he, too, lets go.

My world grays out but for the first time in a long time I'm not afraid...for I know he's there to catch me, as he always has been and always will be.

When I find my focus again, it's to find myself wrapped in a tight embrace. His legs are entwined around mine; his arms are holding me securely.

I sigh happily and pull my head back a bit so I can look him in the face. "I love you, Blair Sandburg."

The shy smile makes its return as he loosens his grip, but doesn't let me go. "I love you too, James Ellison."

"You know," I say as I roll us onto our sides and gently trail my fingers up his side, "I think there might be a future in this communication thing."

He giggles, then blushes as he always does when he makes the sound which never fails to warm my heart. "You think?"

I nod. "But just to make sure I got the hang of it I think I should practice saying it several times a day. What do you think?"

"Sure, no problem, man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Keerah for looking this over for me.


End file.
